


Sweet Temptations

by soft_october, weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Cooking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Well regarded sous chef Aziraphale finds himself in hot water when his former colleague, Crowley, has a few...less than kind words to say about his chef, Gabriel. Tasked with extracting an apology, Aziraphale finds himself seeing the London food scene from Crowley's point of view —andfinally asking himself questions about what he wants. What hereallywants.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 126
Kudos: 255
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. of michelin stars and late night whiskeys

**Author's Note:**

> Notes from weatheredlaw: Alternative tags: "technically it's enemies to friends to enemies to friends to lovers to who knows what" and "the inherent homoeroticism that is cooking together". Please enjoy this entry into the Good Omens AU Event! 
> 
> Notes from soft_october - First I would like to thank the incomparable weatheredlaw for collaborating with me on the cooking AU of my dreams, and also for not allowing me to include 83 run on sentences in the very first chapter.  
> I used to be a chef, and this fic is a loving fuck you to every restaurateur I ever had the misfortune to work for.

* * *

Newt was having a meltdown in the walk-in.

This was far from a startling new development to the kitchen staff of Annunciation. It was his third in as many weeks, and Aziraphale, sweat already pooling in the small of his back, was standing at the saucier's station, trying desperately to cover for him. He knew _why_ , of course, why Newt was currently crouched against the cool metal shelves with his hands pressed to his eyes, trying to prevent his deep and worried breaths from disturbing the rest of the kitchen. Gabriel’s ah, “pep talk” before dinner service was not _inspiring_ so much as it was vaguely threatening and wholly unsettling. He’d set a copy of _Foodism_ on the counter delicately, like it didn’t matter, but Aziraphale saw how his hand hovered over the cover, flexing again and again. Every so often he popped a knuckle, and the tremors vibrated across the glossy pages. By the time Gabriel had gone terrifyingly quiet, everyone else had stopped breathing, and Newt was looking from Gabriel, to the walk-in, then to Aziraphale, before mumbling something about counting the haricot vert and fleeing.

“Any tears?” Anathema asked once Gabriel had disappeared into his office, her eyes flashing to the metal door Newt vanished behind.

“Not yet,” Aziraphale said, grabbing a spoon to test what Newt had been working on at his station. The notes of the demi-glace burst on his tongue, and he shook his head in awe. The boy had the backbone of a chocolate eclair, but his palate was unparalleled. “ _Damn_ , that’s good.”

“That was rough.” Anathema was not talking about the sauce.

“It was,” Aziraphale agreed, carefully, with a quick glance towards the closed office door.

“He went too far.”

“It wasn’t any worse than the _last_ time Gabriel was name-dropped in an interview.” Gordon Ramsey had done it, briefly, in _Bon Appetit._ It had been a less than glowing review, and Gabriel had been dreadful the whole week after. _Threats_ had been cooly made.

“No,” Anathema said, “This was different from Ramsey. Your friend really did a number on him.”

Aziraphale looked over her. “...Crowley is _not_ my friend.”

She shrugged. “You used to work together.”

“I have worked with a _lot_ of chefs in this city.”

“Right.” Anathema dipped her own spoon into the demi-glace and gave it a taste. “Damn, that _is_ good.” She stepped back. “He mentioned you by name.”

“It’s nothing. Gabriel will forget about it in a week and we can all move on.”

“Doubtful.” Anathema moved back to her place at the grill, and they didn’t speak about it for the rest of the night. Newt eventually came out of the walk-in and took over his station, and Aziraphale got back to his job of managing Gabriel’s kitchen.

It _was_ any sous’ responsibility, but anyone in the know would say the same: Aziraphale went above and beyond what was required of him, had to, if the kitchen was going to last past one dinner service when Gabriel was in another snit. ( _Good thing his sous can run circles around him, or Annunciation might lose one of its lovely little Michelin stars_. Wasn’t that the line in the interview that had started the whole mess?) Gabriel was talented, it couldn’t be disputed, but working for him was a _nightmare._ It was Aziraphale’s job to make sure that nightmare was one that people could survive. And if a fair bit of his lifespan was sacrificed in the process...well, there wasn’t much to be done about that.

Crowley could say what he liked — Aziraphale liked his job, and he was _good_ at what he did. Arguably the best. The restaurant demanded sacrifice, and if it had to be him, then Aziraphale was happy to serve.

* * *

At the conclusion of dinner service, Aziraphale was aware of two very important facts. The first was that if he didn’t take off this stained, sweat-soaked jacket in the next five minutes he was going to have a private meltdown all his own. The second was that he was in desperate need of a drink.

Newt, all fumbled apologies and earnest eyes, was eager to make up for his incident earlier with offers of a cleaned station so Aziraphale could go home, and Anathema practically shooed him out the door as soon as Gabriel swept out the restaurant without even a “night, then,” which would have been completely inadequate for what he had put them through, but not quite so demeaning as being ignored completely. Aziraphale opened his mouth to make his usual protests, but found that he, quite simply, _did not_ have the energy for them, and allowed Anathema and Newt to close the kitchen without him.

Eden Tavern around the corner was fine for the occasional after-work drink and plate full of greasy food, though Aziraphale believed he would not be quite so forgiving of the sticky tables and hideous shade of green carpeting were he not operating on a shoestring calorie budget of coffee and sauce samples here at six minutes past midnight.

He settled into his usual place at the bar, angled just _so_ in order to be partially hidden from the front door by an obliging wooden column, drank too quickly, and took a moment’s respite in the fuzzy feeling that comes on with too much alcohol too fast after a day that was too trying.

Aziraphale was allowed to bask in that feeling for approximately three minutes and forty-six seconds before his string of bad luck caught up with him in the form of the very man who was the cause of the whole debacle at Annunciation.

Anthony J. Crowley, former fellow commis chef at Le Jardin, wearer of sunglasses at night, and giver of interviews that sent Head Chefs on terrifyingly cool rampages through their kitchens that left their sauciers cowering, strolled in and sat down at the bar.

It was almost too coincidental to be true. At first, Aziraphale thought he might be mistaken, but that hope was dashed the moment Crowley ordered in that unmistakable drawl of his (whiskey, rocks). Aziraphale changed tactics and hunkered down behind his glass. Perhaps he would manage to escape notice completely. He _was_ partially hidden after all, and Crowley — well, Crowley hadn’t seen him for ages, probably wouldn’t even recognize him (certainly would be hindered by those those _ridiculous_ sunglasses), might not even look around, would be too focused on how to ruin someone else’s day tomorrow to possibly—

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the _angel_ of the culinary world.” A drink plunked down beside Aziraphale, and it was too late.

“That was almost twelve _years_ ago Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed automatically, before he could think of anything else.

“Still have that article in my kitchen you know,” Crowley continued as he settled into the seat beside Aziraphale, taking his response as an invitation. “Clipped it out and everything.”

“Of course you do.” Aziraphale tamped down a roll of his eyes. “And good evening to you as well.” At least _one_ of them hadn’t forgotten common courtesy.

“Evening? Angel it’s well past midnight. Might do better to wish me a good morning.” Crowley grinned at him over the rim of his glass before downing his drink. Ice clinked against the sides when he placed it back down upon the bar.

Aziraphale sputtered. “Good m - _good morning?_ You’re lucky I don’t pitch you out of here myself, after what you’ve done.”

“Oh, what have I done this time? Was it the tweet about that rubbish place that charges fifty a plate for those new micro-tapas? Because it’s all a scam, they don’t—”

“The interview, Crowley!” Aziraphale interrupted. “For Foodism! Gabriel read it and he threw a _fit_!” Well — there had been no shouting or throwing of pots, but it was either a fit or a tantrum, and a fit sounded less like he was being managed by a child who hadn’t gotten his favorite dessert.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, I’ve said worse than criticizing someone’s soup.”

“He ran poor Newt into the walk-in! Again.”

“Pulsifer? God, what’s he still doing there?” Crowley ran a hand through his dark hair. “Those _sauces_ … Bloody hell, why aren’t _you_ finished with that place yet?”

“Crowley—” It was much the same sentiment that had been in his interview, the very same that had turned Gabriel into a holy terror for the better part of the night and was certain to do the same tomorrow. Christ, maybe he should just assign Newt to reorganize the vegetables from the start and stay out of Gabriel’s way _entirely,_ first thing tomorrow.

“I mean it, Aziraphale,” Crowley steamrolled through the cloud of his thoughts. “You’ve been at this how long? You’ve got the clout, you could open your own place _easily_.”

For a moment, Aziraphale was baffled. Was Crowley being intentionally cruel? Or did he truly not—

“Crowley I _tried_ that! Perhaps you remember? Spectacular failure?” Crowley shrugged.

“‘Course I remember, angel.” His voice was softer, somehow, pulled back from the brink of flippancy where it had been hovering since Crowley first sat down beside him. “Just surprised you haven’t tried again, is all. Didn’t peg you as the type who would quit right away. Could work, this time.”

“Yes, well, there’s a precedent now, isn’t there? Zero for one, isn’t that what the kids are saying these days?”

“It’s oh-for-one. And something that happened once ten years ago isn’t a precedent, angel. It’s an anomaly.”

“An anomaly? A restaurant that didn’t survive three months past its opening night and a horde of _scathing_ reviews isn’t an anomaly, it’s—” Crowley held up his hand, and the bartender placed two more drinks beside them. Aziraphale hadn’t recalled ordering anything since his first, but the mystery was solved when Crowley pushed the glass toward him and told him to drink up.

“Look, let’s not fight,” he said, staring at something behind Aziraphale’s right ear. “I’m just saying you have the talent, is all. And I’m sorry about Gabriel.” He paused, considered the expensive scotch in his drink. “Would have loved to see his face when he read it though.”

Aziraphale wanted very much to be angry with Crowley. It would be easier to blame Crowley for his miserable night, for Newt’s state, for Anathema’s dark looks. But despite himself, Aziraphale had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

“ _He was furious,_ ” Aziraphale whispered hurriedly, as if the man himself were about to appear behind him and clap him on the shoulder, ask him how _dare_ he go around _fraternizing_ with the _enemy_. “Didn’t know faces could flick between red and white so quickly.”

Crowley laughed and smiled, and when they clinked their drinks together it cleared some more of the nasty fog between them. For a scant few hours, it almost felt like old times, back when they’d been commis together at Le Jardin, staying out till four and rolling into work five hours later, surviving on coffee and cigarettes and dreams of new flavors and culinary wonders. They traded stories back and forth, carefully avoiding any mention of Annunciation or Gabriel, and it all seemed to be going fine, until -

“Just what _are_ you doing these days?” Aziraphale asked after the third or fourth drink. The clock on the wall must be lying, it couldn’t be _that_ late, even if things were going a bit hazy ‘round the edges.

“Besides irritating every idiot who thinks that just because he knows how to saute he’s a chef, you mean?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but there was no bite left in the gesture.

“Yes, besides that. You must be working somewhere.” Crowley grinned.

“I work _everywhere_ , angel. You’ve seen me, I’m sure you have.”

“I’m certain I haven’t!”

“I’d find it very hard to believe _you_ never noticed a truck by the name of Sweet Temptations.”

Aziraphale froze for a moment. Of course he had seen it (Aziraphale had more than a bit of a sweet tooth, and was always on the alert for new and enchanting delicacies), but Crowley had been classically trained, he had produced desserts for Le Jardin that made mouths water and diets crumble, there was no way…

“You can’t be serious,” Aziraphale muttered. “A food truck?” Crowley’s face lost its easy grin, and was replaced immediately by a guaded, bitter thing.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, angel.” He stood abruptly and threw a few coins down onto the bar. “It’s been great catching up, but I’ve got a long day tomorrow. You know how it is.” Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked out of the bar, ignoring the vague, contritely flavored sputters coming from the man behind him.

Things at Le Jardin hadn’t ended the way Crowley wanted them too, either.

It would be hard to say, looking back, _what_ exactly, he wanted from the experience, but being the head chef’s personal whipping boy was not it. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, how many early mornings or late nights, how many of the staff groaned with obscene pleasure over his meringues or creme brulees. Nothing had ever been good enough for Her, and none of his questions, “What can I do to improve? Why isn’t this good enough? What should I change?” had ever been met with a satisfactory answer.

The day before it all went to hell, he had been sitting out in the back while the late afternoon sun slipped in between the buildings, sitting on a milkcrate, trying to light a cigarette with shaking hands and desperately holding back tears.

There was a mess at his station, three things to pull out of the freezer, a half made pastry dough, ten other things he was certain he was forgetting, but he couldn’t deal with them. Not yet, he just had to take a break, then he would be _fine_ , he just get this stupid lighter to work and everything would be _fine_ but it wasn’t working and everything was - Then a soft pair of hands, too soft for the work they did, really, took the offending twirl of paper and tobacco from him, lit it, and handed it back. Aziraphale sat down on the crate beside him, and they smoked together, not speaking, until the sun had poured out of the alley and dusk had presented them with dinner service and a clattering through the kitchen behind them.

The day after, well, that had brought with it a great deal of shouting, a hail of thrown cookware, and the end of Crowley’s career in fine cuisine. Crowley didn’t see Aziraphale again for a long time, and by then it was too late to tell him anything he might have wanted to.

You see, Aziraphale, who remained at le Jardin after Crowley's dramatic exit, hardly ever thought about that afternoon out back, sitting on milk crates, passing Crowley's last cigarette back and forth until it was nothing but ash.

But Crowley did.

Crowley thought about it a lot.

* * *


	2. of wine and wishful thinking

Gabriel came into the restaurant the next day and shut himself in his office without a word to anyone. Aziraphale took this to mean that he should continue on as normal — checking on stations, looking over the specials, making sure Newt was fine, fine, absolutely _fine_ —

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s office door opened and he stuck his head out. The normal bustle of the kitchen ground to a screeching halt. “In here, please.”

Aziraphale spared a glance toward Anathema, who could only shrug before turning back to her work. He turned and went into Gabriel’s office, closing the door behind him.

"What was it you -"

A copy of _Foodism_ flew past Aziraphale’s head and hit the wall.

“Ah. Is there a problem?”

Gabriel was tall, handsome, and American. He had a winning smile, excellent posture, and very good taste in winter coats. He photographed well, and he was, despite everything, a very good chef.

Seated at his desk, hunched over stacks of papers with his hands in his hair, he looked a bit like _Newt_ , and Aziraphale thought it might be prudent to offer up the walk-in, if he was in need of a cool, quiet place for a quick breakdown.

“You _worked_ with Crowley. Didn’t you?” Gabriel pronounced it like an accusation.

Aziraphale didn’t appreciate the tone — he and Crowley had arrived at Le Jardin around the same time, but they were not especially in the habit of _getting along._ “We were commis together, yes. But we were hardly friends.”

“But he knows you. If you talked to him…”

“Gabriel, I’m not entirely sure what you’re trying to say.”

Gabriel pointed to the copy of _Foodism_ , and Aziraphale bent down to grab it. He handed it over.

“ _This_ is an outrage. It is an absolutely appalling excuse in food journalism and it needs to be _rectified_ immediately!”

“ _Rectified._ ”

“Anthony Crowley runs a _food truck_ , Aziraphale. He makes _pastries_ from a truck and sells them to college students in the middle of the night, he is _not_ a _chef_ , and he will _apologize_ for this.”

Aziraphale sighed. It was true, he didn’t _know_ Crowley. But he knew enough about him to understand that asking for an apology was very likely a wide shot in the dark. It would satisfy Gabriel, of course, who would preen about taking down London’s most notorious “bad boy chef” down a peg or two. It would cause Crowley incredible shame, naturally. He seemed like that sort of person. Aziraphale certainly felt trapped between a rock and a hard place, but...all the same —

His loyalty was with _Annunciation._ With Gabriel. If Gabriel wanted an apology, it was Aziraphale’s job to get one.

* * *

It took about as long to track down a pastel purple food truck as one might think: no time at all, especially if one knew a much younger chef who could hurriedly type something into her phone and spit out an address.

Aziraphale might have been dubious of Anathema’s methods, but he couldn’t deny their accuracy as he rounded the corner and Sweet Temptations was exactly where she said it would be, parked between a costume shop and vet’s office, a line of patrons eagerly awaiting what Aziraphale was sure was a reasonably passable confection.

He hung back, hesitant, watching for a flash of dark glasses, but Crowley was conspicuously absent from the interior of the truck. A pasty twenty something was handing out paper sleeves of brightly colored macarons (Aziraphale remembered them fondly - Crowley always had been very good about them, the biscuits always did exactly what he wanted them to do in the oven and his flavors were always interesting) and tidy sets of petit fours.

Well, if Crowley couldn’t be bothered to run his _own_ truck then there was no reason at all for Aziraphale to be hanging around when there was—

“Can’t get enough of me, then?” Aziraphale whirled around to see Crowley holding a grocery bag from the corner shop, and something to the contrary must have shown in his face, because Crowley pressed his lips into a line and shook his head. “Hmm, suppose not. Business call then?”

“Now Crowley—” Aziraphale began, but Crowley walked right past him and headed towards the truck. Aziraphale rocked on the balls of his feet — nothing about this was going to be pleasant, and he could just tell Gabriel he had done his best — before following. “Gabriel just wants—”

“Gabriel just wants you to do his dirty work like he _always_ does,” Crowley finished for him, pulling a carton of eggs out of the grocery bag and placing them into the refrigerator with far more force than was entirely necessary. “What did he send you to squeeze from me? An apology? Some groveling?” He finally looked at Aziraphale for a confirmation, and Aziraphale nodded weakly. “Well, he can wait from here to doomsday, because that is absolutely _not_ happening.”

“Crowley, we need to fire some more creme brulees,” his assistant said in a soft, nasally voice over his shoulder. Crowley sighed.

“You can come on up if you want to, but I’m not changing my mind,” Crowley grumbled, and set to work setting trays of shiny tins full of pale yellow custard out on the small workstation.

“It - it doesn’t reflect well on the restaurant, Crowley,” Aziraphale continued, trying to keep his eyes away from the way Crowley’s fine hands quickly arranged the desserts and coated each of them with a precise helping of sugar. “And it doesn’t just hurt Gabriel, there’s, well, there’s Pulsifer, for one, and Miss Device - Anathema, you don’t know her but—”

“She grills,” Crowley muttered as he flicked on a blowtorch. “Did you even read the article? It’d be a fairly terrible assessment of Annunciation if I didn’t even know who _exactly_ was in the kitchen.”

“Yes, well...it hurts them, too!”

Whatever other crippled and ineffective follow up Aziraphale had was drowned out by the hum of a blowtorch as Crowley turned each pile of sugar into a perfectly caramelized ring that Aziraphale itched to crack with a spoon. He was mesmerized by Crowley’s deft, efficient movements. Marveled at how far removed they were from the boy he had been at Le Jardin, who agnozied over how exactly to brown each ramekin, the placement of each strawberry on a mirror glazed tart.

“Stop staring and try one already,” Crowley huffed, pushing a spoon and tin into Aziraphale’s hand without looking at him. “You’ll like it.”

He wanted to slam the back of the spoon into the sugar and crack it, like he was a child, but decades of work in the industry had taught Aziraphale decorum, and he tastefully dipped in the spoon, collected the perfect amount of carmelized sugar and custard to taste, closed his eyes, and —

_Oh._

Whatever Aziraphale had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Was that… _yes_ , there was pistachio there. And _honey_. But the custard was so smooth, surely Crowley hadn’t resorted to extract, not with the robust flavor of roasted pistachios there! Then how…

“Crowley this is amazing,” Aziraphale managed, after another taste (or three). Crowley’s shoulders shook in what might have been a chuckle.

“‘Course it is, angel. Think that I’d forget how to cook just because there’s not some fancy french name out front?”

“No, but this is phenomenal.” Crowley just shrugged, and Aziraphale’s awe turned to anger in an instant.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he blurted out, so loudly that a young couple at the front of the line heard him, and shot him a dirty look.

“I’m working,” Crowley spat back. “I know you might not know what that looks like outside a kitchen run by incompetence, but that’s actually what’s happening here.”

“Not _here_! Here! Why aren’t you in - in - in _Paris_ or something?”

“All Parisian chefs are assholes,” Crowley replied, with a dismissive wave. His assistant looked over his shoulder at the pair, uncomfortable as a scandalized mother clapped her hands over her son’s ears.

“Well, yes but...well they’ve _earned_ it, haven’t they?” Aziraphale was trying to be quieter (in the kitchen at Annunciation there certainly wasn’t an audience for every spat between the staff, and he counted that as a win for his side).

“ _Earned it?_ ” With a loud hiss that drew eyes even beyond the crowd eager for sweets, Crowley didn’t seem to mind making a spectacle at all.

“Well, you know how it is, work you way up and—”

“Yes, of course, be shouted at enough until you can be the one doing the shouting, don’t worry, I know it’s been a while, but I remember.” Aziraphale opened his mouth, remembered Le Jardin, and then closed it again.

“No, say what you were going to say!” Crowley goaded. “Is that why you’re slaving away at Annunciation for a chef that isn’t fit to salt your soup? Hoping to one day be able to bully the staff and hurl copper pots around hoping everyone else is quick enough to dodge?”

“That’s not—”

“Then what _is_ it?” Aziraphale was floundering (this was going rather worse than even his most catastrophic imaginings) and there was surely something, a compliment, he didn't mean to be upsetting Crowley like this…

“You’re… well, you’re _better_ than this.”

There's a danger lurking at the heart of arguments, beyond the shouting, beyond the pointed barbs and bitter sarcasm and hurt feelings. There's the possibility that you might say something so awful, so spiteful, that it ends the argument at once because the other person realizes you're a monster who isn't worth their time of day at all.

“Get out of here.”

“I only meant—”

“Get _out._ ” Crowley’s face had twisted itself into a stony mask that left no room for interpretation or argument, and the air between them no longer smelled like the bright notes of caramelized sugar.

It smelled like something burning.

* * *

Aziraphale went back to Annunciation, told Gabriel that everything was fine, that Crowley seemed to be coming around, and with some prodding might be willing to take back the whole thing. (It was one hundred percent untrue, but by the time Gabriel figured that out, he would hopefully be dealing with some other imagined crisis or another, and would fail to follow up.)

After all, the restaurant certainly hadn’t been _damaged_ by the bad press. Indeed, there has actually been an uptick in business since the publication, although the clients weren’t doing Aziraphale any favors, asking after him specifically.

Aziraphale had security here, a career that might have stalled, perhaps, but steady work, good pay, and that wasn’t easy in the industry, was more than most chefs could ask for. He could have stayed there for another five years, putting out Gabriel’s fires, pointing the way to the walk-in for certain weepy-eyed chefs, and receiving none of the credit for any of it, if he hadn’t been shoved out the door by Anathema early one slow Wednesday night.

“Phone,” she said, in a tone that brokered no argument. “I sent you a text and you best read it. You’re moping around here like someone slapped a biscuit out of your hand and I won’t stand for it anymore.”

Half in confusion, half in resignation, Aziraphale stumbled out into the night.

Perhaps the greatest lesson Crowley had learned over the years _wasn’t_ any sort of cooking technique, or the pronunciation of archaic French words, but that you really, _really_ couldn’t trust anyone.

Case in point: he had _thought_ Aziraphale was on his side. He wasn’t. (Thought or wanted? Whatever. It didn’t matter now.)

Second case in point: he had thought hiring Edgar was a very good idea. It wasn’t.

Edgar was twenty-six and had glorious aspirations of becoming a famous chef. Crowley had never promised to help him. Edgar was twenty-six and, supposedly, in love. Crowley had no opinion on that. Edgar was twenty-six and had gone and gotten himself a new job. He’d sent Crowley an _email_ explaining it. Crowley had swears and opinions aplenty on this, but it didn’t change the fact that he now had no employee, no help (and no Aziraphale, not that he’d _ever_ had that in the first place.)

So now Crowley was set up in his truck just outside of St. James Park, as he often was on Wednesday nights, except this time he was facing the small crowd completely on his own, apologizing and passing out soup and sandwiches as quickly as he could.

Twice a week, _Sweet Temptations_ stopped spitting out sweet brulees and brightly colored macarons, and was, instead, _the_ homeless destination of London. Soups that stuck to the ribs, and sandwiches stacked high with thick cut ham and turkey, a swipe of mustard if they wanted it, and a piping hot cup of coffee for anyone who asked for it.

Usually, this went pretty smoothly. Edgar had always been fairly reliable, (if a bit too generous with his personal expectations). But tonight, Crowley was struggling, and it wasn’t just because he was down a pair of hands. It was probably a lot of different things — he was still angry with Aziraphale, with the whole _Foodism_ debacle. He was furious with himself for thinking things with Aziraphale could _ever_ be good. He was furious with _Gabriel_ for testing Aziraphale’s allegiance, because of _course_ when your chef asks you to do something, you’ll bloody well do it or you know which way the door is and don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out. Aziraphale was loyal to a fault — to his cooking staff, to Gabriel, to Annunciation as a whole. He was furious with himself for being furious with himself ( _it doesn’t matter, it was so long ago you’re being_ incredibly _ridiculous_ ) but it couldn’t be helped.

“Right,” he said, as the queue for the truck started to get longer. “Sorry about the wait, just a little shorthanded tonight.” There wasn’t much grumbling. These people liked him, and Crowley liked _them._ Besides, it was really going far better than he could have hoped. Slower, sure, but that was to be expected when —

“...Need another set of hands?”

Crowley turned and found Aziraphale standing just outside the truck, one foot on the step leading up, his expression open and questioning.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know I was here?”

Aziraphale held up his phone. “Anathema. She said you’re here Wednesdays and Sundays.”

Crowley nodded. “Right, but doesn’t—”

“Look, I only came to say I was sorry, and I heard what you just said. If you want me to go, I’ll go, but I thought you and I could—”

“Stay,” Crowley said, before he could stop himself. “I mean. If you want. Mostly just need help with the soup. Passin’ stuff out.” Aziraphale nodded and climbed inside to stand there, much, _much_ closer than he’d been before, waiting for Crowley to direct him. Crowley swallowed thickly. “There’s, um. Gloves. Up there. Got two kinds, tomato and chicken noodle. So just.” He jerked his head toward the soup tureens. “This one’s tomato.”

Aziraphale pulled on some gloves and prepared some bowls. “Yes, chef,” he said, then winced. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Crowley nearly fell over, and it was only by the grace of someone that he caught the knife in his hand before it clattered to the floor and gave the whole game away, but he composed himself. “Hey, no skin off my nose if you want to show excessive irreverence, angel. Can’t imagine what _Gabriel_ might say to that, eh?” He winked and turned back to the line. “Right! Who’s next?”

Two hours later, the last of the line thanked them with a mock salute and headed out. Aziraphale leaned against the counter while Crowley kept his eyes on wiping down his station, wrapping up tins of condiments and storing them in the fridge, _anything_ to keep his hands busy. He chanced a glance upwards. The vents. Yes. The vents _absolutely_ needed to be cleaned and there was no way Aziraphale was going to haul himself up on the roof of the truck to help him. Crowley could sort out this whole mess in private and Aziraphale would go on home and then Crowley would scrub the vents and stretch out along the roof and stare at the stars. Alone.

_Alone alone alone._

His skin prickled and he drummed his hands along the edge of the counter, the only clue to the war of nerves raging inside him. What was the worst that could happen, if he asked?

And hey, the view from the top of the couldn’t be beat.

“Fancy a drink?” Crowley asked, not looking at Aziraphale, and thus didn’t see when Aziraphale lit up at once.

“Oh, I would!” He smiled. “There’s a wine bar I like not far from here…”

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t thinking _wine bar_ ,” he dragged out the words. “But there’s a place nearby that’s pretty good. They even have homemade sweets” He pulled a bottle from its place in the little fridge along with two clear plastic soup containers and some brownies he had baked earlier in the week when he was feeling a little less at ease. “It’s easy to climb up. Ladder on the side.” Crowley sauntered out ahead of him. Couldn’t read the disappointment in someone’s face if you couldn’t _see_ their face now, could you?

To his surprise, Aziraphale stepped out of the truck, stood beside him and looked at the rickety little set of bars that could, perhaps, be called a ladder if one was being generous.

“It’s...safe?”

“Oh come on, angel. Live for an hour.” Crowley pushed past him and handed him the wine and makeshift cups. He quickly scaled the ladder. Aziraphale passed the wine up and followed. “See? No immediate danger.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, getting settled on the roof of the truck. “I suppose there’s still a chance you could push me off.”

Crowley huffed a laugh, uncorking the bottle with a satisfying _pop_ and filling the soup containers. “Right,” he said. “So, uh. Here’s to...you. I guess. Comin’ by. Saving my skin.”

“I _did_ save you, didn’t I?” Aziraphale said, with an arched eyebrow and pursed lips. Crowley’s eyes caught on the way the light from the lamp danced along the lines of Aziraphale’s face, and turned away before he did something stupid.

“Let’s not get carried away, angel,” he replied, and couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale laughed, raising his container in a cheer, and the little plastic vessels made a soft noise in the night when they clinked together. For a few quiet minutes, they looked over the park and its various late night inhabitants: a woman walking her three dogs (or were they walking her?), a couple walking so close together it seemed they were trying to outwit physics itself to occupy the same space and time, a bird hopping about, questing for crumbs left over from Crowley’s crowd.

“This is a good thing you do, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, softly. Crowley barked a short and unpleasant laugh.

“Oh, come off it.”

“Really. I know you don’t like to hear it, but it’s...it’s very _nice._ ”

Crowley scowled. “S’not nice. _I’m_ not nice,” he muttered. His stomach felt warm, but he was drinking, of course. No other reason. “Don’t go around saying that,” Crowley warned.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Could be.”

Aziraphale laughed and, for a moment, it felt just like those hot evenings in July, at Le Jardin. Sitting on the back steps, sharing a cigarette in silence. Sometimes even a quick cup of wine. They were young and they were miserable then, but, in some ways, Crowley had never been as happy. Misplaced nostalgia, he called it.

Just a fondness for simpler times.

“Thank you,” Crowley said again. “For tonight. I needed your help.”

“You know you can ask for it whenever, Crowley. Can’t promise I can always show up, but...I’ll try.” Aziraphale glanced at him. Leaned into his shoulder in a friendly sort of way that Crowley absolutely wasn’t going to read into (so warm, so _warm_ ). “I promise I’ll try.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs @ weatheredlaw and @soft-october-night


End file.
